


Self-Heal and Centaury

by Siria



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s05e06 The Shrine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-25
Updated: 2008-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most of the expedition—the ones from the West, at any rate—never develop a liking of Athosian stout tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Heal and Centaury

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Cate and Jenn.

Most of the expedition—the ones from the West, at any rate—never develop a liking of Athosian stout tea. Rodney disdains it because it doesn't have the kick of dark roast, but John relies on it almost as much as Ronon and Teyla; thinks that if Teyla had to deal with a four month old without it for very long, she'd end up snappier than Rodney on days when he's had nothing but decaf. It's a drink always served just shy of steaming, rich and filling, a blend of tea leaves, butter made from the milk of the _dreema_, and coarse salt, left to boil over night; on the nights when there's no time spare to run to the mess, the fermented tang of it alone is enough to keep you going.

Teyla likes to serve it in shallow curves of terracotta-warm clay—cups that fit the shape of two joined hands, the wide round of it sending up steam that soothes even before you take the first sip—but John tends it in a small plastic flask on the worst nights, the long ones. He can rest his hands on it then, let the radiating warmth seep through into bones that ache from injuries old and new; a thousand times better than gloves, than rough cloth that always feels too restrictive on his fingers.

Good for three in the morning on a rain-soaked Lantean pier, but better for nights like this: the infirmary dim around him; Ronon and Teyla somewhere nearby, conferring in soft voices; Rodney asleep on the narrow infirmary bed, fingers twitching in the thin weave of the sheets, the low whimpering that nightmares bring dying away by degrees not because the fear is fading away, but because Rodney can no longer remember the tangible qualities of his fears. Each breath he takes is a sign he's still fighting; each breath he takes is pulling him further away, and John's fingers are clamped tight around the flask he's holding.

It's mostly empty now, because John's wanted to stay awake, just like he stayed awake most nights since it's gotten bad. Not that many nights, really, it's not that John feels so bad, but that's—that's what makes it worse. That it's been ten nights and he's been getting by, but Rodney can't remember where he went to high school. Two hundred forty hours, and Rodney's asking where Ford went, and why Elizabeth hasn't been to see him; wondering if he did something wrong.

His eyes are stinging—he's been awake a long time—and John ponders a nap, or a sandwich, or a run that will fling him through Atlantis' corridors, or even just whining at Teyla until she brews him another flask of the stuff, strong as she can make it. Doesn't have to resort to the last, at least; Teyla comes over and slips a fresh flask into his hands, her small hands curling his suddenly clumsy fingers around its warmth.

"Stout tea can only replace sleep for so long, John," she says, but she's not chastising, it's not sympathy in her voice. It's empathy, it's a reminder to herself, because what have they all been the last couple of days but a constellation orbiting around Rodney—him and Teyla, Ronon and Keller, Radek and Miko and Woolsey, alternately drawn in and repelled by the force of Rodney's instinctive anger, his bewildered grief for his own uncomprehended dying.

"I know," he says, shifting in the uncomfortable infirmary chair and trying his best not to look her in the eye. His voice cracks. "I know." He does. Another cup, maybe two, and his fingers will start to shake, fine tremors from nerves that have been asked to do too much for too long.

Keller gives it maybe a week, at the outside, before Rodney's fine motor control will be so shot he'll need help to dress himself. John shuts his eyes for a moment.

"I'll take a nap," he promises Teyla. "I'll... something. He'll be awake soon." It's true; Rodney's awake with the dawn now rather than using the first rays of the sun to help him locate his bed in the clutter of his small room. There should be someone with him when he opens his eyes and finds himself somewhere new all over again.

Teyla nods, and her voice is so gentle that for a brief moment he's _angry_ with her, angry that she can take on the weight of this fresh grief in a way he can't. "I will stay with him, John. Go sleep."

He opens his mouth to argue, but then thinks better of it. He's pretty sure that if he refuses, folds his arms and digs in his heels, he'll find himself hoisted over Ronon's shoulder and hauled away against his will—it's only happened once before, when he was high on that stuff from P98-TY14, but the memories of that morning are enough to embarrass him into acquiescence, into realising that Teyla is, as always, right.

John stands, feeling the protests of joints that have been fixed in one posture too long while he's been keeping watch, while he's been waiting. "You, uh—"

"Yes," Teyla says, running one hand the length of his arm briefly, soothingly. "I will."

He nods at her, jerkily, not trusting himself to reply. He'll go and he'll sleep, claw back enough energy so that he can come back here and wait with Rodney; give him the respect he's earned. But before he goes, he reaches out and rests one of his hands on top of Rodney's; lets the heat of his palm, still warm from the flask, bleed through to Rodney's own, and watches, with a strange kind of satisfaction, as some little hint of strain slips out of Rodney's expression, as a crease in his forehead smoothes itself out. It's as if even in sleep, the refracted, reflected warmth of John's touch was enough to bring him back to himself a little, to make himself a little more awake—and John, for a moment, entertains the vaguely hysterical thought that if only Rodney could bring himself to stomach the stuff, drink a gallon or three of stout tea, he'd be back to himself in no time.

Not like John's ever been so good at the self-heal, though, not like his hands are skilful enough to hold the cure. All he's got is his tired self, and Rodney sleeps on, eyes flickering rapidly beneath his eyelids as if in search of memories already gone. He'll sleep in a moment, but for now John's hands linger, offering what they can: slowly fading warmth, not enough, not enough, and Rodney shivers beneath his touch.


End file.
